In Your Lungs
by Littleditmiss
Summary: Five things that Stiles knows when he sees Lydia and one thing he doesn't. "When she touches him, his skin catches fire. All it takes is a simple graze, a small moment of contact for his whole world to light up in blazes." A seven chapter fic based on the five senses.
1. 1: Touch

**So I haven't wrote any fanfiction in quite a while, but I'm currently suffering immensely with inspiration for my novel and so I'm taking a break in order to present some hopefully half-decent writing for you to read.**

 **I had this idea and I figured I might do the same structure for a few different fandoms.**

 **I'll stop boring you now and I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

 _Touch._

When she touches him, his skin catches fire.

All it takes is a simple graze, a small moment of contact for his whole world to light up in blazes. His skin tingles, his blood pulsates with a heat that melts his bones, the warmth shakes him to his very core.

He loves it.

He's addicted to it.

She's grabbed his hand before now, in times of fear, for safety and comfort, always platonic, and his world has ignited before his eyes. His fingers set fire, he fears he'll melt her hand the heat is so strong. It warms him, she warms him, it hurts like hell but he misses the pain when she's gone.

And when she's gone, once the contact is lost, it feels like she's tipped a bucket of ice cold water over him, extinguished the flame that she has brought about. It makes him feel numb. It hurts even more than the fire does, the nothing. It hurts like rejection.

Sometimes, he swears she must feel it too. When their fingers have touched as she's passed something to him and he sees her flinch as he does, as fire begins to burn in his soul. She breaks eye contact, doesn't speak a word and he's convinced she feels it too.

But other times, he knows for sure she didn't feel a thing. Countless times she's accidently brushed against him in the hallway, or her knee bounced into his under the lunch table, and he's set alight, left looking dumbfounded and startled as he feels so much more than just being. But she carries on her conversation, or finishes her lunch, without even the slightest hint of recognition in her eyes.

He'll take it anyway.

When it happens, when he can feel himself on fire, he's so acutely aware of her, so much more than before. Every breath she takes he sees, if a bead of perspiration appears on her neck he knows, and if she looks at him, oh God he's aware, he's so aware of her eyes on him that the burning, the fire, it rises straight to his cheeks.

It doesn't deter him, he's a addict after all, he needs to touch her, even in the simplest of ways.

Sometimes, he reaches out for her hand, just to feel the fire. He even casually bounces his leg against hers as if he was thinking about a song just to feel a spark. Occasionally he bumps into her in the hallways, or holds the book she needs a little too close to the middle so their fingers would touch. He looks for any excuse to hug her, to push her hair out of her face.

He'll take whatever he can get.

He's glad the burns don't show, because that's what it feels like to him, like she's burning his skin, branding his flesh with her touch so that no touch will ever feel the same as hers. Sometimes he does wish he could show someone the effect she has on him, but he's glad there's no explaining to do.

After all, it's hard to breath with ash in your lungs.

* * *

 _The heat is sweltering and it's only May, everyone has lost their jackets, shoved them half-heartedly across the floor into a deep dark corner of the library after hours. Books are thrown across the table, everything from human biology to ancient mythology, anything that could possibly help them, anything even remotely connected to their current situation._

 _"I think I found something," Stiles' voice is heard above the tropical rain pouring outside, only adding to the muggy heat in the two storied room._

 _The friends gather around Stiles from where they all sat on the floor in the space around him, getting close enough to hear and read with him but far enough so no body heat was shared. That was the last thing they needed right now, sweating and fanning themselves._

 _"A couple of the words are stuff we've heard before, I think it's a story," Stiles spoke, "I'm not sure though, it's in Latin."_

 _With that, a strawberry blonde head pokes up from her book, just as everyone else's heads turn to her. "I can give it a shot," Lydia replies to the unasked question, "But I'm not promising anything."_

 _Stiles picks up the book he was just trying to read from where he had placed it on the floor and Lydia grass it with her outstretched hand as he offers it to her._

 _Their fingers brush against one another, a spark ignites into a flame and their breath gets caught in their throat._

 _It's so fast and yet so slow that the only way to describe it is that it feels like falling in love for the first time._


	2. 2: Sight

**Part two of six.**

 **Please review and follow and favourite and everything in between.**

 **Sorry if there are any accidental grammatical mistakes, I'm prone to that.**

* * *

 _Sight._

It hurts to watch her, but he can't look away. She's like the sun to him, without her his life would be dark, cold, miserable. She shines so brightly he wonders why she's on earth, not gleaming in the heavens with the other stars. It hurts to look at her, it physically pains him, like staring at the sun too long. And yet he can't look away.

She's beautiful. He just has to look at her, have her in his sights, it's like a luxury to him, he thinks she should be on display, immortalised in a portrait or as a statue, she could put Greek goddesses to shame.

His eyes hurt when he looks at her, she's far too beautiful for his eyes. It's hard to look at her, he knows it's not good for him, it sets his standards too high, adjusts his eyes to a heavenly beauty but he can't look away. To look away would be a sin, would be cruel to himself, depriving his eyes of her radiance.

He's going blind at the sight of her.

He takes in too much air when he sees her, chokes on oxygen when she walks into the room, glowing. She's so beautiful he struggles to breath, form words, swallow. He can't help it anymore than she can.

Her eyes are as green as the sea, deep, deep pools of ambrosial liquid. To look into them is a day's work. He knows them, in and out, he has seen the joyous and the curious and the pained looks they can carry. He knows her eyes in and out, he knows each shade and what they depict, he can guess what's going on behind them from one swift glance.

Her smile is angelic. She could light an entire town she shines so brightly, it's impossible to watch her smile, witness the slow curving of her lips and still feel miserable. She's contagious. He finds her contagious in the most delightful way, he never wants to find a cure.

He could watch her all day, witness the graceful elegance she walks with, the confident curve of her back as she straightens herself up, holds her head high and strides into school. Over and over again he's seen her do this, go from no-one to someone in just the move of her posture, he never gets tired of it. He never gets tired of her.

She's caught him staring once or twice, her eyes have glanced his way as he's taking in the way her strawberry blonde hair falls down her back, dips at her neck, he plays it cool, acts nonchalant, she acts passively, unknowing, flattered. She loves the attention, it fuels her radiant smile, pushes her to get up in the morning and do her hair, do her makeup.

His eyes still fall back to her when she looks away. He's ashamed, but he's addicted.

Addicted to her smile and her eyes, the way she colours her lips, straightens her back, slouches over a book at the library. He's addicted to her, the way she looks.

He's glad she never questions his staring, he'd love more than anything to tell her how she makes him feel, the effect her presence has on him but he couldn't answer if she asked.

After all, it's hard to explain with too much air in your lungs.

* * *

 _There was a light September breeze in the air as Lydia made her way from the school parking lot to the actual building, it ruffled her perfectly kept hair but she couldn't care any less anymore. She had grown tired of all the effort she went to in the mornings, layer after layer of makeup and God knows how long fixing her hair._

 _Today, she had gone without it all._

 _Sure, she still wore one of her all time favourite top and skirt combos and she had combed her hair and put on a bit of mascara, but the change was drastic all the same. Needless to say she was feeling a little less self confident than usual._

 _But still strode through those school doors like it was a runway entrance._

 _Nothing too drastic happened in the first few moments, a few questioning looks from people she didn't know but as the looks intensified she began to feel like she was making a mistake, being too naïve in thinking she was actually as confident as she made out she was._

 _But then Stiles walked around the corner, their eyes met, his travelled down her briefly, but long enough that she could see his jaw drop, see him choke on air for a small moment, word 'wow' under his breath to himself, and all before his eyes met hers again and he smiled a sincere smile, unknowing that Lydia knew exactly what had just happened._

 _Lydia Martin never felt anything less than confidence about her beauty ever again._

 _She finally lived up to her reputation._


	3. 3: Smell

**So I went into this thinking it would be super short but its actually the longest chapter so far. I was a bit worried it would come across quite creepy but I actually quite enjoyed writing this one, especially the scene at the end.**

 **Please review, it motivates me to carry on.**

* * *

 _Smell._

The perfume she wears is intoxicating to him.

He doesn't know exactly what it smells like, it's a mixture of things, things he loves. In it he smells rose and lavender, something stronger like nutmeg or cinnamon, possibly even apple if that's possible. She smells like all of his favourite things, everything he relates to her, everything he only ever wants to smell for the rest of his life.

It's like his own personal brand of heroin, like a drug. He's addicted. He knows it's odd, strange even to know exactly what she smells like, to have his nose so accustomed to that peculiar scent that everything else smells wrong. He knows this is borderline stalker stuff.

He doesn't care, he's addicted after all.

He loves the way that she smells the same every single day, no matter what. Whether she's watching him play lacrosse or strutting around school or sleuthing in the middle of the night, no matter what, she still smells the same.

It's intoxicating, he couldn't think of a better word to describe it if he tried.

It's aromatic, fragrant, sweet, fresh, it's everything a smell should be. And it's so Lydia. Everything about it, from the floral scents to the musky, mysterious smells are just so perfect to him, a perfect way to sum her up in a simple smell. He loves it, he loves her.

He's not even sure that she actually _wears_ perfume anymore. There's just no way someone could smell exactly the same all the time, whether she's being held hostage, or predicting a death or revising on his bedroom floor. He figures it must be her natural scent, it must just radiate from her pores, maybe even her sweat smells like flowers and home cooking.

Or maybe it's all in his head.

No one can smell that good, he figures that no one can smell like coming home. Like a warm drink on a cold day, like reading a book by a fire, like coming home after a long trip, it's just not possible. Because that's what she smells like to him - happiness. Like a world without danger, without strife, like a perfect summer day.

She smells like happiness. Like love. Like warmth and light. Like Oxygen and water. She smells like everything he could ever need if life, she smells like everything he could ever want.

And he's starting to think she's noticing the way he leans into her slightly when they stand next to one another, just to smell her a little stronger. The way he reads the perfume bottles on her dressing table when he's over at hers revising, in the hope of working out just what that mixture is. He thinks she started to feel awkward about it, but if she does still, she doesn't show it. She never shows it. And she never asks.

And he's so very grateful that she doesn't ask, he'd have no excuse that didn't sound weird out loud.

And he couldn't physically answer even if he wanted to, he'd struggle to catch a breath to speak with.

After all, it's hard to breath with perfume in your lungs.

* * *

 _Stiles wasn't the biggest fan of the summer holidays, sure everything seemed to die down on the supernatural spectrum but he always hated being too hot. Warm, great. Hot, not so much._

 _Lydia however, loved the heat. She could sit in the sun with a good book and nothing but her bikini on all day long if she could, absorbing the beautiful tropical whether._

 _But midway through August, the heat just turned nasty. Like, five seconds unprotected outdoors and get heatstroke, nasty. Neither of them could stand that._

 _So Lydia went knocking on Stiles' front door, covered head to toe in layer after layer of sun tan lotion and moaning that the air-con in her house had stopped working and fans 'just weren't doing it'. Stiles obviously let her in, why wouldn't he, they're friends after all and she was constantly over at his. So they ended up lying on their stomachs next to one another on the floor, fan towering over them, reading their text books to get ahead for the following year._

 _Neither Lydia nor Stiles made any effort to hide the fact that they were sweating, it came with the territory really, since it was just too hot to care. But Lydia, she was glowing more than drowning, shining with sweat rather than the way Stiles was just covered in it._

 _It was quite innocent really, how the truth came about, about how Lydia smelt to Stiles. A quick, unexpected gust of wind from the open window that blew her scent towards him, Stiles not backing away but smiling as Lydia looked at him apologetically._

 _"I am so sorry," Lydia said, smile on her face, "Did you just get a whiff of how badly I smell right now?"_

 _Stiles smiled before answering, "Believe me Lydia, you do not whiff. Even your sweat smells amazing."_

 _Lydia chocked a laugh, "What? How could I possibly smell good right now?"_

 _"Believe me," Stiles replied, "I wish I knew."_

 _"Okay then, what do I smell like?" Lydia asked him teasingly, a smile spread across her face, "Be honest."_

 _Stiles cleared his throat before beginning, "Like roses and lavender and other nice flowers. Um, then there's this after-smell of nutmeg and ginger, cinnamon even, something musky like that, but cute musky, not a butch musky. And then you smell clean, like plain old soap and you get a hint of apple, like your shampoo," Stiles drew quieter as he spoke, wanting to tell her but not wanting her to know. As he continued, it got harder to breath and tougher to find the words he wanted, looking into her eyes as if he were letting her in on some deep, dark secret of his._

 _Which in some respects, he was._

 _"And, I don't know... You just smell good Lydia, you always seem to smell really, really good. Is it weird that I notice that?"_

 _And instead of her usual, teasingly cheeky smile, a broad and true, totally innocent smile crossed her face. She shook her head, wanting to say something that sweet back, something about the odd things she noticed about him, but in the moment, she couldn't think of anything to say her head was so foggy._

 _"It's not weird at all, I mean Scott can literally smell my emotions." And so they laughed instead, and carried on the day as planned._


	4. 4: Sound

_Sound._

His ears are tuned to the sound of her voice, a voice he could pick out of thousands.

He knows her voice better than he knows himself, it means everything to him, just a word from her can send him spinning through space and time, make a great impact on his day, bring him up or pull him down.

Her voice has magical qualities, he's sure of it.

If he's sad, had a bad day at school, lost someone close to him or thought for too long about his mother, wanting nothing more than to just cry, let it all out, she can somehow save him. One word from her, just the sound of her voice, her laugh, her steady heartbeat, it's enough to bring him back, save him from the pain.

Hers is the only sound that can reach him when he's panicking. He hates his panic attacks, hates them with a burning passion, the way he can't breathe, can't think, the way the world fades and distorts until he can't tell which way is up is horrible to him, he feels like he's just being pulled further under, plunging deeper into the abyss that is his fear, his panic.

Her voice can save him from that, it's the only thing that makes sense to him in that state. When the world is churning and right is left, he can still hear her, still understand her, her voice is like a miracle, a cure, it's a drug that can save him from himself.

It's her laugh too.

Her laugh is the most beautiful sound to him, his ears long for it, crave the sweet sound of her giggle, he's addicted. He finds there's just something about the musical tone of her chuckle that can brighten up his day, no matter how dark, no matter how hopeless or useless he feels, even in an apocalypse her laugh could distract his thoughts, hijack his brain into believing that anything is possible, that he could survive just about anything.

Her laugh, her voice, they put even the most beautiful singers to shame, no one compares to her, no one can come close. Her laugh is like the sweetest music, like coming home, like hot chocolate on a winters day, her laugh is the light, the warmth, it makes everything okay, makes everything worthwhile.

It's like joy in his ears, travelling through his mind and down his veins, stopping his heart and entering his lungs. Just pure joy, her voice sounds like happiness, it brings him joy.

She has a voice like honey to him, smooth and sweet, like velvet, like happiness. Because that's how he feels when he hears her - happy. Like he's the luckiest man on the planet. Like nothing bad could ever happen. Like he's indestructible.

It's quite dangerous really. She could ask him to do anything, to say anything and he'd do it, just so he could hear her voice. He's knows he's lucky that she wouldn't ask him anything unreasonable.

When she talks to him, it puts him in a trance, it's like he's hypnotised by her, like her voice consumes and overwhelms him. He hangs on every single word she says, listens intently, his resolve never wavers. He must listen to her, he must hear her voice, must encourage her to go on. He knows it's odd, stranger even, he doesn't know why he does it but he finds himself willing her to speak, to continue what she's saying, to go on and on and on and never stop. He just wants to hear her, just wants to hear her voice. He thinks he might be addicted.

Sometimes, he thinks she notices that he never interrupts her, always asks her to expand on what she's saying, to carry on, he suspects that she might have realised what he's doing. Maybe not in its entirety, but she knows. Maybe she thinks that he just doesn't like talking, he'll never know. She doesn't question him else, never verbally picks up on what he's doing. He's glad she doesn't ask.

After all, it's hard to answer with joy in your lungs.

* * *

 _"Stiles," Lydia called from across the room, empty but for the two of them on this cold November night, "Come look at this, I think I've found something."_

 _Stiles, who had up till now been lay sprawled out on the floor, eyes scanning over multiple mythology books at the same time. They had been instructed to find out all they possibly could on Kira, her abilities, her powers, other types of foxes. Every once in a while Stiles would read something about the Nogitsune and squirm where he lay, but in his pride he'd never let Lydia know how much this affected him._

 _There was a new player in town see, someone they suspected to be a fox, though good or bad, Kitsune or Nogitsune they did not know, she was almost, somewhere in between._

 _Stiles heaved himself up and travelled across the library to reach Lydia, who was perched on the edge of a table, books spread all across the wooden surface, but one book sat firmly in her hands, like it had done the last twenty minutes._

 _"Here," She spoke, handing the book to Stiles, "Read this."_

 _He went to take the book, hoping that maybe their fingers would accidently touch in the process but thought better of it, he could never read this as well as her. "Could you read it to me?" He asked, sitting down in a chair beside her, "I've got the Alpha of all headaches."_

 _Lydia laughed quietly at this, a musical, rhythmical sound and Stiles fought desperately to find something to follow it up with, anything to keep her laughing but she soon stopped. And she started to read._

 _"There are two common classifications of Kitsune. The Zenko are benevolent, celestial foxes associated with the god Inari; they are sometimes simply called Inari foxes. On the other hand, the Yako also called Nogitsune tend to be mischievous or even malicious." Stiles faked a brutal laugh at this, he knew - they both knew - just how malicious a Nogitsune could be. "Local traditions add further types. For example, a Ninko is an invisible fox spirit that human beings can only perceive when it posseses them."_

 _Lydia looked sceptically at Stiles, who despite the mention of the Nogitsune was on a high. Her voice, it soothed him. He looked up to her, hoping, praying even, that there was more, that she would continue._

 _"Are you okay?" Lydia asked, "Is it your headache?"_

 _Stiles nodded but it was a lie, he knew that._

 _He was merely in love with the sound of her voice._

 _Lydia smiled, "We can finish this tomorrow. Have you had any aspirin?"_

* * *

 **Sorry if the information about Kitsunes is incorrect or anything like that, I merely went on what I found.**

 **Please review, I'm getting serious demotivated.**


	5. 5: Love

**Okay, so I didn't quite think this through.**

 **I had planned to do each of the senses until I realised that the last one was taste (like I said, I didn't plan ahead) and I thought that might be a tad odd at the moment, worse than the smell chapter. So this is just him being in love with her.**

 **I've got a plan though, I'm going to come back to taste as an extra seventh chapter.**

 **Thank you to the Guest who reviewed so nicely - I think I might love you, and like I said, I'm leaving taste until the very, very end.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

 _Love._

His brain is hotwired to know her, to notice her and everything she does. Her every move he notices, each breath she takes, the way she flips her hair - everything. He notices it all. It's just the way his brain works, how his very being is centred around her.

He knows what she wants before she even knows she wants it. It's years of watching her, observing what she does and when, it's years and years of falling in love with her. And God has he fallen in love with her.

He knows her. He loves her. He's loved her through a thousand lifetimes, it feels like that to him anyway. He feels like he's spent a millennia loving her, learning her ways, wishing she loved him back. He'd love her through a thousand more lifetimes, he's sure of it, through a thousand lifetimes and a thousand planets, a thousand stars, he'd love her through an apocalypse, a thousand apocalypses, through a thousand lifetimes.

He'd always love her. He'd never leave her, no matter what. He'd love her till death do them part.

She's turned him into a clichéd, sappy, love-struck being, stuck paralysed in his own love for her, unable to escape, even if he wanted to, which he didn't. Sometimes, he felt like a stalker, he knows her so well. Like a one-way love.

Because good God he loves her. He loves her with all his heart. With seas parting them, wars raging, death looming, he loves her through it all, no matter it all. People may part them but he will always love her, he will never stop.

She gives him butterflies in his stomach and too much air in his lungs, everything cliché he gets, everything he thought he would hate he craves. He needs to be near her, he needs to be with her, he's addicted and he never thought he could be. He's addicted and he doesn't want rehab. He's ill with love and he doesn't want a cure.

She's it for him.

He loves the way her strawberry blonde hair sways with the wind, how it always gets in her way but she's too scared to cut it short, the way it always looks perfect even if she's thrown it up in a bun.

He loves the way she still looks perfect when she cries, how the tears can only add to her beauty, that even with blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes she's still the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

He loves the way she thinks, how smart she is, how she knows just about anything you could ever want to know.

He loves how she makes him want to be the best version of himself, not to impress her, not to win her over or satisfy her desires. But because he wants to, he wants to work hard, he wants to solve the mystery, save the day, because she inspires him to do so, not force him.

He loves her. Everything about her, even her quirks. Even the way she snorts when she laughs too much. Even the way she'll only eat the lemon starbursts and leave the rest for him. He loves her. And he wishes she loved him back.

But he struggles to tell her this of course.

After all, it's hard to confess with your words stuck in your lungs.

* * *

 _The rain was pouring down outside, Lydia was drenched just from running from her car to her front door and ended up snuggled on the couch in sweats and an old, paint-stained t-shirt, her hair tied tightly in a bun at the top of her head and fluffy socks on her feet she was uncaring of who saw her, not that anyone would, it was now eight in the evening and her mother was out on a date with a nice guy who'd just moved to Beacon Hills from New York. Lydia was watching her favourite movie - the Notebook - with a bag of popcorn in her blanket covered lap and she was happy. Sad because of the movie but happy in general._

 _She had had a pretty crappy day if she was to be honest, with the rain and only getting a B on an AP Biology paper Scott aced, not to mention that Stiles had been missing all day and Malia had been in an extremely snappy mood._

 _Honestly, Lydia quite liked Malia, she was nice when you get to know her, sure her moral are a little touch and go and she's perfectly fine with murder and cannibalism but in general she was alright. So when her new friend was crying at lunch, and Lydia had tried to comfort her and ended up with a claw imprint on her arm (luckily Scott could pry Malia off before she ripped the thing right off) Lydia was a little less happy._

 _Then of course the B and it started raining and no-one had seen Stiles yet. Lydia had texted him and he said that he was ill but she knew something was wrong, so did the others, and they figured it was something to do with Malia's hostile mood, which was seemingly linked to Lydia's presence._

 _But anyway, Lydia put it behind her and focused on the Notebook. At least she did until there was a knock on the front door._

 _Assuming it was her mother back early from an unsuccessful date and forgetting her keys again, Lydia shouted "It's open" to whoever was on the other side, since she figured no-one was stupid enough to drive - or walk - out in this weather. In fact, she hoped (for once) that her mother's date went well and they booked a room for the night in the hotel they were eating at, the rain and wind were a lot worse than when she set out._

 _"Hey," She heard from behind her, a voice that was definitely not her mother's but not unfamiliar to her either. Lydia paused the movie, shoved her popcorn bowl now almost empty onto the coffee table in front of her and turned her head to face her guest._

 _Stiles was absolutely drenched, from head to toe, almost as if he had been stood outside pacing for the last twenty minutes, which of course he had. "Oh God, you must be freezing! Let me go get you a towel." Lydia said, bustling around to get up from her place wrapped up on the couch._

 _Stiles grabbed her arm and helped her up, but held her back when she went to get him something to dry off with. "Lydia, I really need to talk to you."_

 _Lydia wasn't listening, "I thought you were smarter than to go out in this sort of weather, especially when you're sick!"_

 _"I'm not sick," Stiles answered, "Please just listen to me before I talk myself out of this."_

 _Lydia nodded slowly, cautiously, and sat back down on the sofa, laying the blanket out beside her and motioning for Stiles to sit on it. As he did, she wrapped it around him and rubbed his arms in the hope of generating some heat._

 _After a little while, Stiles spoke up again. "Malia and I broke up," he told her, not daring to look her in the eyes._

 _"Oh God," Lydia replied, expecting to have a heartbroken boy in her care for the night, well at least she now understood Malia's foul mood. "Why?"_

 _Stiles took a deep breath, willing his heartbeat to go down, praying to every deity he knew of that this didn't prove to be his biggest mistake to date. "Stiles," Lydia coaxed him out of his own over-thinking thoughts, "Why did you break up?"_

 _One final breath._

 _"Because I'm in love with you."_


	6. 6: Her

_Her._

 _"Because I'm in love with you." Stiles tells her, only turning his head to look at her once he's finished._

 _He swallows hard, she imitates, unsure of what to say, unsure of how she feels. Her eyes glaze over and all sorts of feelings she'd never dared to feel before rush to her brain cells._

* * *

When he touches her, she feels a spark. Not the usual, awkward rush of accident, but a real firework that bursts from the place of contact. She finds herself grabbing for his hand in times of need, of comfort, because he's warm, he's safe, he's Stiles. Who else would she turn to?

He was always there. Everywhere she turned. No matter how she felt she knew she could go to him, that he would make her feel better with only his words. He had this way of knowing exactly what needed to be said, even when no words were needed he knew just what to do. When to hug her, give encouraging words, and when to tell her to pull herself together, tell her exactly what she was doing wrong.

She could - and would - always turn to him. If she needed cheering up, calming down she knew she could always go to him, no matter what time it was, early or late or inconvenient. Sometimes, she found herself crying just that little bit more than needed so he would hug her that little bit longer. His arms were like anchors to her, pulling her back to reality but keeping her safe at the same time, she felt like no harm could come to her in his arms.

He'd always protect her, of course he would. He was Stiles and she was Lydia, it was just how it worked.

She found his cologne intoxicating. She always found herself wondering what it was, or even if it was cologne, for all she knew it could be just what he smelt like. She wishes she knew. She'd like to know.

She's never bored of looking at him, she's never felt that way before. But each day his hair is different, not two days the same and she finds herself eager to find out how high or low, how spikey or bed-head he's gone each day. She likes it best when he's done nothing to it, when it's sticking up in every direction from where he's rolled around in bed.

She knows he moves a lot in bed. And not from sleepovers or because he's told her but because of course he does. She just finds herself knowing that that's the case because she knows him, she knows him better than she likes to admit. Because it's weird to know a friend so well, isn't it?

His smile is heavenly to her, it's warm and forgiving but cheeking and mischievous at the same time. She loves it, she finds herself doing whatever it takes to get a smile out of him, even though she doesn't realise it at the time, it's an instinct to her.

She loves his voice. She finds herself listening to him more intently than any of the pack, like he'd share some inescapable wisdom with her. The way he screams her name when she's in trouble, the way he whispers her name when she's upset, the way he giggles her name when she's said something funny. She's never really liked her name before but God when he says it... She could listen to him say her name for the rest of her life. He says her name like it's precious china, or happiness and joy in its purist form.

The way he can solve a mystery is a mystery itself to her. Sure, she helps, she understands his wavelength but there's something about the way he does it, the bright light in his eyes like a bulb above his head and his nimble fingers writing on the board, connecting strings between evidences. She loves the way his mind works, she truly does. The way that even in his untrusting nature he would trust those who deserve it with his life.

And his loyalty to his friends, to the pack, to Scott, to the point where he'd die for them, it's something she has always admired, loved. She's never met anyone but Scott and Allison who would go to such great lengths for another. She's always respected Scott, she'll always love Allison. Doesn't the same apply to him?

The questions consume her, but what worries her the most is that she already knows the answers to each of them, she knows exactly how she feels and deep down, she thinks she's always known.

She reminds herself to take deep breaths because she knows she'll have to talk sooner or later. It's hard though.

After all, it's hard to reply with questions in your lungs.

* * *

 _"Please," Stiles begs, looking straight into Lydia's eyes, "Say something."_

 _Lydia looks up at him, "Stiles," she whispers, "I love you. I think I always have."_

 _Her words are music to his ears and he places his hands either side of his face, she gasps momentarily from the cold but as he caresses her cheek she forgets. She forgets that the rain is pouring down outside, she forgets about the B she got on her Biology paper, she forgets about anything and everything that isn't her and Stiles._

 _And when he leans in, she kisses him back._


	7. 7: Taste

**As promised, the final sense - taste, in a not-so-creepy context.**

 **WARNING: This is a little intimate - nothing too graphic or mature, just teen rated stuff.**

* * *

 _Taste._

Her lips taste like coconut he's decided. It's taken him a while to figure out he'll admit, he has been distracted in all fairness, but yes, coconut. It must be her lip gloss. He likes it, he likes coconut.

The taste of her lips is quite overwhelming for him, after all these years of wondering what she'd taste like, making guess after guess, he thought he might be disappointed, that after all that time she'd taste like nothing special, just like a chemical combination from her lip gloss. He was not disappointed.

Coconut was her usual taste, he liked coconut, and he told her so. But every once in a while, she'd mix it up, throw him off, since she knew he noticed. Kiwi was another prime flavour for her, he didn't like that as much, though he preferred the darker look her lips got when she wore that flavour - colour.

Her lips were divine to him, the most heavenly taste in the world, but if he were honest he loved the way every part of her tasted.

The skin of her neck, where her hair rested all day and was pushed away from all night always tasted faintly of apple. He suspected the taste was more to do with the smell of her hair, some sort of illusion of taste through scent. He'd take it anyway, her neck, her shoulders, the ticklish bit of flesh behind her ear were some of his favourite places to put his lips, the apple flavour was an added bonus to her moans.

The rest of her however, the rest of her skin, tasted like a mixture of raspberry and something more nutty, a musky sort of taste that he couldn't place. She told him it was her moisturisers (and he had questioned the plural) but figured she was right, he had seen her use many a time two lotions on her silky skin, Raspberry Cream Body Lotion and Shea Butter. He had no idea what they did and why she needed both.

Sometimes he even wondered if he would get ill, consuming traces of lotions and shampoo and lip gloss, but she had a way of making him not care.

The taste of her was overwhelming, palatable even, he craved the very essence of her. He thinks he might be addicted. But the taste he got of her every night and every day was just celestial, transcendent, sacred even. The taste of her had a way of making his heat pounce into his throat, everything about her pours into his very being and he just can't get enough.

He loves the way she tastes. He loves everything to do with her.

She knows this, of course she knows this, he somehow manages to tell her every day. But he struggles with the words, he really does, he says it all with his eyes, with his actions.

After all, it's hard to breathe with Lydia Martin in your lungs.

* * *

 _Lydia rolled on top of him, pinning him down with not only her body but her stare, "What is it?" She asked, "What's bothering you?"_

 _Stiles looks at her, dead in the eye, then his eyes travel to her lips and she thinks it might all be alright, but then he looks away again. "Nothing," Stiles tells her, "Don't worry about it." He lifts his head to kiss her half-heartedly, but Lydia pulls away fast._

 _"Oh no you don't," she whispers to him, leaning away but pressing her dress-clad body closer, "Not till you tell me what's wrong."_

 _Stiles sighs, "It's stupid."_

 _Lydia pays no attention, instead she watches him watch her, their eyes staring deep into one another's. But this wasn't a loving stare, this was a mini battle of minds, Lydia vs Stiles. She wanted to know, he didn't want to tell her. Stiles knew he wouldn't win._

 _But he did hold his own, it's a good five minutes before he cracks, lifting his hand to smudge her lip gloss away with the tip of his thumb. He's quite rigorous with the action, to the point where Lydia knows this isn't some meaningless gesture or tactic, he wanted that lipstick gone._

 _"Is this because I'm wearing kiwi flavoured lip gloss?" Lydia inquired innocently, laughing slightly._

 _Stiles looked at her intently, "I knew you'd find it stupid."_

 _Lydia had to control her laughing - fast. It took a lot longer than she hoped but she got there in the end, and then she looks to Stiles, "Explain it to me then."  
_ _"You're coconut," He said, "That's just you. I spent so many years wondering what you'd taste like and it turns out to be coconut, which I really like. I don't like kiwi lipstick as much, it's just not you."_

 _Lydia smiled, jumped off of him and made her way over to her bag, removing a lip gloss and applying. "There we go, coconut." And when she was done, she jumped back onto the bed. Stiles smiled and flipped them over, leaning in to kiss her._

 _Needless to say that Lydia only ever brought flavourless lipstick for the rest of her life, and applied her colourless coconut over the top._

 _Oh, and she was nicknamed Coconut from then on._

* * *

 **And there it is readers, the short and sweet final chapter. I hoped you've enjoyed reading as much as I've loved writing. Please review and favourite, it all means so much to me!**


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